by Nina Malkin
She’s so sad, she even cries sometimes . . . a lot.” Really edging the kid’s emo-meter. “I don’t even think the biggest bouquet could cheer her up. But you know what will?” She looks up hopefully.
“If we could find Crane, get him—”
One push too far—but it’s not Charlotte who reacts. Instead it’s like a monster amplifier hid amid the roses was suddenly cranked to eleven, blasting Antonia’s blasted waltz. Ugly with distortion, the tsunami of sound shakes Forsythe Manor to its foundation. Charlotte gives a shriek that I can’t hear, and I grab her, cushioning her head against my chest. Sin leaps from his post and stoops, her skinny limbs circling his neck and torso, while I get vertical. Ushering us out, Sin lays his free hand between my shoulder blades, but I sidestep to snatch Antonia’s letter and in that instant see every single petal drop from its sepal, leaving litter atremble on the floor and a ravaged forest of barren stems.
The bilious bellow seems to assault from everywhere at once, spreading through the corridor and narrow stairwell like choking sonic smoke. The steps and banister quake so violently I’m sure they’ll splinter as we hurry down, but we reach the bottom and charge into the main house unscathed. Just in time for the remix: Books, knickknacks, china, picture frames, anything not bolted down, adds smashing, crashing contributions to the din.
Furniture stamps on wooden legs like an insatiable audience demanding an encore. The very floorboards, which are bolted down, rattle in the racket and threaten mutiny.
The impulse, of course, is to get the hell out of here. The danger—what annihilating void might await beyond these dimension-flouting environs—doesn’t even occur to me. Yet just as my fingers touch the heavy brass doorknob, the noise is no more. The house is still. Almost silent, but not quite. Antonia’s waltz continues to play, with that eerie, almost wheezy, hollow tone. It no longer violates every square inch of mass in the manor, but now has an identifiable source. So we—Sin, Charlotte whimpering in his arms, and me at his side—follow it to the salon.
There, at the small keyboard I’d noticed earlier, sits the girl who would steal Sin.
XXXV
A gifted musician Antonia Forsythe is not. Features pinched and shoulders hunched, she plinks and plunks and plods her way through the piece, in its own way as painful as the cacophony we just endured. A few feet inside the room, we wait for her to finish, but I get the feeling that if Sin were carrying an ax instead of an innocent child, he’d storm to the instrument and go lumberjack on its ass. Even as he lowers Charlotte to the floor, I sense his muscles twitch, anxious to throw off this practice of restraint, this facade of courtesy.
Antonia knows we’re there, since like any poor player the awareness affects her performance. First she loses the rhythm and then (small blessing) speeds up, but in her favor, I’ll admit she doesn’t fumble the notes. Which speaks volumes about her: She is precise, she is determined, she will let nothing dissuade her. Great. My nemesis is a sociopath with bloodhound tendencies who, as an added bonus, is already dead and ergo indestructible.
We’d come upon her in profile, and when she’s finally done making Strauss or Chopin or whatever lesser composer turn over in his tomb, Antonia slides her outsized hands from the keys and swivels to face us fully. Her malnourished mouth widens slightly in her poor excuse for a smile, those gray eyes emitting a dull pewter gleam. Then she rises from the bench to execute an inelegant curtsy, and bows her head.
Dutifully, Char begins to applaud, and without much enthusiasm, Sin and I take her lead. This springs Antonia straight for Sin, ignoring me entirely and lavishing him with a worshipful gaze before dropping her eyes again.
This girl, this girl—we all know a girl like this, since most of us at some point have been a girl like this. Sure, fine, some are born freak-of-nature flirts, genetically programmed for playful allure, the hair flip and come-hither glance as basic as the taste for chocolate. Valentine’s Day in kindergarten? They’ve got the fat stack of cards. Pen was like that, though you might not believe it, seeing her now. Most of us, though, need a minute to find our way with guys, and what’s good about that is, once we get it, it’s unique—it’s ours. A subtle, quiet charm for some, or a rough-and-tumble tomboy appeal. For me, it’s all about banter—I may not be the hottest chick in the room, but I’ve got the teasing, testing, verbal tug-of-war thing down. As to this girl, this Antonia, she still hasn’t figured it out yet, and I almost feel sorry for her.
Except right now I’m too uncomfortable for empathy.
Somebody has to say something. With a nudge of my elbow, I nominate Sin. Maybe he’d prefer to wring her neck, but ultimately he pronounces her name. Antonia looks up eagerly.
With all the control he can muster, Sin says, “I believe you have some explaining to do.”
At that, the girl’s mouth puckers and her cheeks puff with triumph, even mirth, as she holds that spade of a chin high in defiance. Antonia’s game—a game without rules or logic, played in an arena of death and nonsense—is clearly going her way. Then, bitch has the nerve to shrug. Shrug! She jacked Crane Williams, causing his family and as-yet-still-unofficial fiancée untold worry and grief, and God knows what kind of trauma she’s inflicted on poor Charlotte, and all she can do is shrug!
Sin clenches his fists at his sides. “See here, Antonia, you’ve committed some egregious offenses, and seem to have done so maliciously. What’s more, if I read your letter correctly, you’ve acted upon the notion that I . . . made you some sort of promise—”
The word she’s been waiting to hear. Antonia launches herself at Sin, no doubt the way she did that inauspicious afternoon in her garden. This time, though, he’s not so sensitive; this time, he refuses the solace of his body. Ripping at her tentacles, hurling her away with a grunt. Antonia stumbles, then regains her footing only to throw herself onto a settee and proceed to sob convulsively.
I shake my head at Sin. “Nice job.”
“Dice, please, do not berate me. She must be a numbskull, as I’ve said all along!” His low growl is as harsh as any shout.
“What makes her think I—when I did not, I never—”
“All right, all right,” I say. My turn to take a stab at it, girl to girl. I sit on the floor beside the distraught figure. Dubious, the wisdom of this move—she could haul off and smack me with one of those bony mitts—but I place a hand on her upper back.
I rub gently. I coo soothingly. Then I take her by the shoulder and prompt her to face me.
“Hey, Antonia? You know me, don’t you?” A safe assumption, since she’s been mucking around with me and my friends for the past month, yet her stare is blank through her tears. “I’m Dice. Candice, but everyone calls me Dice. And, look . . . I know I’m an outsider on this whole situation between you and Sinclair, but sometimes an objective opinion can be helpful.
You know? I’m not here to make trouble for you. I just want to understand what’s going on. So you think you could please stop crying and sort of fill me in . . . ?”
Am I getting anywhere? I can’t tell. At any rate, Antonia doesn’t seem to be gearing up for a physical smackdown. Still, that infuriating orifice in her face seems screwed tighter than ever, not a rose afraid to bloom but one that withered before it got the chance. As of yet, not a single, solitary word has squeaked out of it.
That’s when I feel a tugging on my T-shirt. Charlotte has elected to join us.
“Hey, Char,” I say, and put an arm around her, drawing her into the chummy circle of chick-bonding I’m trying to manufacture here.
Only Antonia looks at the little girl in the oddest way—the way you look at a jacket you thought was so cute in the store but then got home and wondered why you wasted your money on such a thing, a jacket that’s not in the least bit cute and doesn’t even fit. You’re mad at yourself, but you project the feeling onto the offending piece of outerwear. Stupid jacket.
Ugly jacket. You could rip it to shreds.
Char evades Antonia’s look and instead gi
ves me one of intent. Then she cups her hand to her mouth and leans into my ear. Her whisper, heated by excitement, imparts crucial information: “Excuse me, Dice, but don’t you know Antonia doesn’t talk?”
XXXVI
Guess that explains why certain eighteenth-century Swoonies never had an actual conversation. Still, expressions can speak louder than words—the malevolent glare Antonia just leveled on Charlotte, for instance. Creeped out, I return my attention to the still sniveling woman scorned. “Pardon me, won’t you?” I say, my manner decorous. “The child is tired; I’ll just attend to her.”
Taking Charlotte’s hand with an authoritative squeeze, I march her to one of the salon’s small sofas. No doubt she is exhausted; at least, she’s eager enough to docilely toe off her shoes and settle onto the cushions. A pillow for her head, a shawl as a blanket, I rig up an impromptu bed and, as I do, glance at Sin, standing in the spot of his recent pouncing as if soldered there.
He’s had a rough night too. For one thing, he hates to be wrong—and, damn, was he ever wrong about Antonia. Plus, that ruckus she pulled earlier was straight out of Haunting for Dummies, yet he fell for it just the same. Cool in the crisis but nonetheless affected, rattled, dare I say afraid, if not for himself, then for Char and me. Him, Sin Powers, wickedest mofo this town has ever known, thrown by the caprice of a novice. He runs a palm over his thick hair and looks this way; our eyes latch—the confusion and concern I see there, the wondering: What have I done to bring this upon us?
We really need to huddle, strategize, only any intimacy between us is sure to ratchet the mistress of Madhouse Manor up to new heights of whacko. I perch on the corner of Charlotte’s settee and wish her good night, then lightly stroke her hair as I try to collect the pieces of this puzzle. The effort to organize my thoughts makes me want to curl up next to her and pull the plug on my brain. Too bad this isn’t about what I want. Wired, weary, I walk to where I’m equidistant between a rock and a mental case. I clear my throat. I get their attention.
“I want you both to know that Charlotte and I will be leaving shortly.” Sin scowls, narrow-eyed, but Antonia’s expression couldn’t be more delighted—she perks up in her seat and sucks back snot, her silent lips upturned as much as they’ll allow. “I recognize that you two have personal matters that our presence—my presence—infringes upon. I also know that the sooner you”—I have to gulp to get this out—“reach an understanding, the sooner our friend Crane will be returned to his loved ones”—I lean my gaze on Antonia now—“gladly and in good faith.” Since, hey, just because she’s twisted doesn’t mean she won’t honor her word.
If objections rise to Sin’s gorge, he swallows them as now I approach Antonia. She rises to meet my eyes. “I do so wish you and I could have had a conversation.” Smile: small, a flawless facsimile of genuine. Tone: moderately dulcet. Inside I’m spitting—I hate to lie—but I’m not an actor’s daughter for nothing. “We have much in common: Music, but of course you know that. Oh, and horticulture—I’ve started my first garden this summer, merely vegetables, nothing grand like yours, but I do enjoy it.” Palm to palm at my sternum, with all the sincerity of namaste, I continue: “Anyway, I must thank you for your hospitality.” Then I let my glance waft to Charlotte. “We’d be on our way right now, only look at her, so peaceful—these last few hours have been such a hubbub, I’m hoping you might consent to let her sleep till dawn?”
Antonia agrees with a tilt of her head, yet I sense confliction there. Victory is so close she can taste it—soon, she and Sin will be on their way to yonder bridal blech. Yet I don’t believe anyone ever spoke to her as I just have—with not only kindness but interest. To me, it’s clear: Antonia Forsythe has never had a real friend.
“As for me, I simply . . .” Closing the space between us, searching for the term—oh, right. “I have to use the chamber pot.” She puckers her mouth and tops it with three fingers, faintly a-blush over my confession. “I’m sure I’ll find my way unaccompanied,” I say, and with a quick, deferential curtsy, I am out of there.
In truth, I do need to pee, but this is—for the moment, anyway—my last-ditch attempt to locate Crane. I hurry along, peeking behind every door. Inured by now to sordid criminal scenes, I say, “Don’t mind me,” to the valet I spy slipping arsenic into his employer’s whiskey and turn a blind eye to a murderous adulteress. Just before the great hall, where in the Williamses’ residence a rather lavish powder room lies, there is in fact a WC. Clearly I’ve entered a more modern era since rather than an oversized pitcher under a bench, the facilities resemble what I’m used to. I drop my jeans and drawers and sit, and then I get company.
“Hey there, sister.”
You know someone’s your friend when you have no problem peeing in her presence. “Hey yourself,” I tell Early. Finishing up, I wash at the pedestal sink and lower face to faucet for a few quenching slurps.
“How goes the sleuthing?”
I shhh! her automatically. Then, catching the two of us in the mirror—she a head shorter—I feel a sudden pang. Cute, bright, doomed—a victim of her appetites. Maybe, if things were different—no loveless marriage, no rambling house in the middle of nowhere—Early might’ve found a calling, led a full and fulfilling life. The 1920s were revolutionary for women—Josephine Baker, Coco Chanel, Amelia Earhart, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Why not this saucy charmer with the challenging, gap-toothed grin? Poor baby bearcat. If only I could take her with us, but of course I know I can’t. I let the water run to conceal our voices and turn from the glass.
“Look, Early, we found Charlotte in the nursery.” I stroke her arm from shoulder to wrist. “Thank you again for the tip.”
“So what’s next, hmm?” She hops up onto the sink, slinging one gam over the other. “How do you and your sinfully delicious fella intend to deal with that moony Antonia?”
“Not sure,” I admit. “First thing I’ve got to do is get Charlotte back.”
Early widens her eyes, fastidious lashes reaching toward thinly plucked brows. “You . . . you’re leaving?”
“Just till I can get the kid home safe. Unless . . . you haven’t run into Crane, have you?”
Sliding off the sink, Early’s face gets wistful and stubborn at once, like a little kid when bedtime is announced. I think I know why: I’m just the sort of good egg she could get used to, and I guess the lonely dead like having a live one around. “No . . . ,” she says, petulant, and fishes around in her etui for lipstick.
With meticulous precision, she refreshes her pout in the mirror, then turns back to me. “Righty-o!” she says, and shrugs, and then grabs me for an emphatic hug. Touch! I hear Ruby in my head and squeeze the small girl tight. “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
“I won’t,” I say, only Early’s already bounced, leaving nothing but a smirch of crimson cosmetic on my shoulder.
XXXVII
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sin asks somberly as we mount the east wing steps. We being all four of us.
“Yes, of course.” I am such a liar. “You and Antonia need to be alone.”
The tower room has been restored to floral extravagance—decadent heaps and neat arrangements, blue roses on the desk, mounds of white on the bed.
“Antonia, may I pick a bouquet for my sisters?” Pleased by the entreaty, our petal princess gives Charlotte a magnanimous nod.
“Will you help me choose? I want it to be just right.” Really, I could kiss the kid! Now Sin and I can steal a tête-à-tête. Apples on his breath, the otherwise earthy-animal essence of him—I get the strong weakness that defines me when he’s this near.
“I cannot believe you’re leaving me alone with her!” That makes two of us. “I’ve got to get Char back—Marsh will be out of her mind,” I murmur. “Besides, it might be smart to divide and conquer. Once I’m gone, Lady Loony’s guard will go down and you and she—”
He grips my arm reflexively. “You’re not suggesting I—we—consummate—”
The ve
ry idea makes me gag. “Of course not. Just . . .placate her. Distract her. Romance her.” What, I’m giving him a refresher course in how to be Sin? “And while you’re at it, scope Crane. I’ll meet you—”
The rustle of silk over taffeta tells me to can it. Antonia has led Charlotte to the mantel, the girl’s arms laden. My eyes on Sin’s—if only I could dive their depths, drown there.
Then I think, WTF: Antonia must realize what he means to me; she won’t buy a casual farewell. So I’ll make it a good-bye for the record books. I go to him. Fit my peaks and hollows to the topography of his frame. Press my full length against him—the muscles beneath the denim and cotton, my cheek to the triangular treasure of skin exposed at his V-neck. Take in the mingling of glandular excretions, the heart and brain and sex and soul and Sin of him. Demanding and devoted, under and around, my arms hold him like he’s mine. And with crush and comfort and purpose and promise, his body and everything that vessel contains owns me in kind.
Completely. For a breath, a beat. Then we part.
“Come, Char, let me have some of those,” I say, striving to keep the quaver from my voice. “You’ll need to grab onto the gate.” We stand at the hearth. I look to Sin. “Help me . . . help us find it.”
“Let it find you,” he says.
Since that’s how it’s done: surrender control, forget focus.
“The pinwheel!” cries Char; that’s how the fissure appears to her.
“Now close your eyes . . .”
And here is the gate, our iron ferry home. Don’t! warns a scared and selfish part of me. Don’t leave him! I acknowledge it, I validate it, and then I ignore it.
“Oh. Hey. Sorry.”
Two startled dudes in overalls leap from the fireplace as if scorched, one of them losing his hammer with a clunk. Having allowed Charlotte to sleep through sunrise, we now enter the living world with the workday already in progress.